


do shake the darling buds

by Damkianna



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Communication Failure, Confessions, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Psmith's silence boded ill. And yet Mike cringed to think that he might now break it, and wished with grim bitterness that he would not.It was Psmith and his words that had brought them here. And Mike had been desperately unhappy with the present state of affairs, but would be unhappier still were it to change for the worse; which, he could not help but think, it surely must.
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 32
Kudos: 34
Collections: pine4pine 2020





	do shake the darling buds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> You picked so many amazing freeforms I could barely figure out how to pick between them, KannaOphelia—I just hope you enjoy this combination of "assuming heavy flirting isn't serious", "guilt over sexual attraction", "mistaking pining for platonic admiration", and "worrying about ruining friendship", and happy Pine4Pine! :D

In Psmith's rooms at Cambridge, it had typically been the case that peace, fraternity, and tranquility ruled.

Psmith was naturally fastidious; he kept a clean and orderly establishment. His tastes were refined, and he had a keen sense for those enhancements likeliest to encourage casual comfort in the visitors he might choose to entertain.

However, these facts contributed less to the atmosphere than might be supposed, in comparison to the simple truth that both the rooms' occupants generally wished very much to be there. Mike preferred Psmith's rooms over his own, and Psmith took pains that he should continue to do so, though Mike was not aware of it. Mike, in his turn, would have preferred Psmith's rooms over any other location on the face of the earth that did not contain Psmith more often than not, even had they been furnished with barbed spikes and carpeted in swamp-muck.

Even a prison cell might have been rendered a pleasant accommodation, if inhabited with such readiness and willingness of spirit. And Psmith's rooms were not a prison cell.

But they had lately rather begun to resemble one, to Mike.

He and Psmith had not willingly been parted more than a day since they had come to Cambridge. To deliberately depart from Psmith's company was inconceivable.

And yet Mike sat, in the armchair where he always sat, and could not bring his eyes to rest upon Psmith. He perceived himself to be suffocating by degrees. His throat was tight. His eyes were hot. His shoulders strained, as beneath some vast and unwieldy weight. He felt tense, braced, as one who anticipates some dangerous action soon to commence and is determined to meet it in readiness.

Psmith lounged upon the sofa opposite. In contrast to Mike, he looked thoroughly relaxed, insouciant. He wore his college blazer with unruffled aplomb, his long limbs artfully arranged, leaning an idle elbow upon the sofa's arm.

But he did not speak, and had not in half an hour at least. A deathlier portent, Mike could not name.

Psmith drew breath. In the otherwise silent room, the sound of it worked upon Mike's nerves as a gunshot might have on another man's. His jaw clenched. His shoulders drew up.

Psmith's silence boded ill. And yet Mike cringed to think that he might now break it, and wished with grim bitterness that he would not.

It was Psmith and his words that had brought them here. And Mike had been desperately unhappy with the present state of affairs, but would be unhappier still were it to change for the worse; which, he could not help but think, it surely must.

It had begun perhaps a month ago.

Coming to Cambridge with Psmith had been the best sort of dream, to Mike: one that had been made manifest, one from which he could not wake. He had borne the news that it could not happen as best he knew how, with the steadiness and outward understatement that came naturally to him, and he had accepted Psmith's offer to reverse his unfortunate circumstances in the same manner. He had known there could be no words sufficient to express his gratitude and gladness, even had he anything approaching Psmith's gift for eloquent address. So he had not tried to find them. He would go, and be Psmith's confidential secretary and adviser, and acquit himself as best he could in every respect, and that must be enough. Psmith knew him, he had thought, if anyone did. Psmith would understand.

Psmith's rooms had become as familiar to him as his own. More so, perhaps, for he had developed a habit of falling asleep in Psmith's armchair, and waking the same way, none the worse for it.

The compatibility of nature which had served them so well at Sedleigh had only operated more powerfully upon them at Cambridge. Already well-versed in each other's habits and preferences, they had passed those early days in blissful harmony, moved by a congruence of thought and understanding so comfortable Mike had felt almost overwhelmed by it.

And yet it would not have signified, would have caused no distress and provoked no undue contemplation, if only Psmith had not begun to—to _say_ such things to him.

Mike had never been naturally introspective. He might have gone on without a moment's pause just as he had been: spending every instant when it was feasible to do so in Psmith's company, and with his mind fixed on Psmith when it was not; idly admiring Psmith's long narrow hands, or dimly tracing the lines of Psmith's face and eyes with his gaze, without understanding what he did or why.

But Psmith had cruelly flicked the scales from his eyes, had torn his blissful ignorance from him with a casually Psmithian flourish. Psmith had done nothing more or less than _complimented_ him.

Psmith had always been in the habit of speaking kindly and fulsomely to Mike. That much could not be denied. And the lavish manner in which he chose to bestow his praises had always made Mike feel flushed and strange, had always made Mike's knees oddly weak under him.

But matters had progressed to unprecedented extremes. And, pressed to those extremes, Mike had come to grasp what he had not grasped before, and could not bear it.

It had begun with a college event, of the sort that asked a certain degree of formality. Mike had brought his best evening dress with him, a lush dark tail coat and matching waistcoat, and a dress shirt possessed of a fine winged collar. It had suited him better than he knew; all he had perceived, dressing in Psmith's side room and then forcing himself to emerge, was that he felt like a stuffed frog.

He had said nothing to Psmith. But by the hunch of his shoulders, the plaintive looks he had cast about him, he had made appeals to which Psmith had not been insensible.

Psmith had smiled at him, and clasped his shoulder with a certain grandiose warmth of manner. "Calm yourself, Comrade Jackson," he had said; and then he had paused, and had spoken next in a low confiding tone that had inexplicably provoked Mike's heart to pound: "It is at this juncture I might be tempted to draw a comparison, looking to the classical masters or perhaps modern literature, if only I felt that one existed which might do you justice."

Mike had blinked at him, and had felt his face heat. He had said something, he was sure, but his own fumbling words were not engraved upon his memory with half the clarity with which his mind had taken down Psmith's.

He had been aware, suddenly and helplessly, that Psmith's hand had lingered yet upon his shoulder—that Psmith's eyes had appeared rather larger and darker than was usual, and that Psmith stood closer than he had previously understood.

"Indeed," he had added after a moment, "if I thought you might be prevailed upon to agree, I would implore you to dress yourself thus daily."

For a moment, they were caught. Mike could not move; Psmith had seemingly chosen not to.

And then Psmith had released his shoulder, had smiled at him again and raised his eyebrows and ushered Mike toward the door.

Mike had managed, in due time, to catch his breath, and to rein in his racing heart. He had, that night, been at a loss to explain his own sensations in response to Psmith's gracious and gentlemanly reassurances, offered with such ready courtesy.

Surely that was all it had been.

But then it had happened again, and again. Psmith had spoken to him in relentlessly glowing terms at the slightest provocation; he would not quit. Mike's worthiness and steadiness, Mike's loyalty, had always earned him plaudits from Psmith. But now it had all been—it had been his dress, often. His dress, the color of his shirt and how well it complemented his eyes. The way he had brushed his hair back from his forehead. Even, once, the fit of his trousers. Mike had been left speechless and fiercely red for half an hour at least.

Mike, tongue-tied under the best of circumstances, had not been equal to the task of meeting this unexpected campaign with equanimity. He had let Psmith's words pass without comment when he could, and had clumsily changed the subject whenever he felt it possible to do so. The strain of it had built slowly but inexorably—he had told himself firmly that he must accept Psmith's benificence in the spirit in which it was intended, and that determination had sufficed for a time.

But he could not keep himself in check forever. His skin had prickled relentlessly; he had flushed with heat whenever he met Psmith's eyes. He had begun to quit Psmith's quarters for his own in the evenings, rather than linger in the face of what he had dimly begun to grasp was increasingly powerful and dangerous temptation, and had lain awake, restless, pulse relentless—until, more and more often, he had been forced to give in and settle himself in the only way his body's desperation would accept.

The strain had peaked at last not two days ago. Mike, fresh from a cricket match, sweating and flush with victory, had for a moment forgotten himself: had greeted Psmith at the edge of the pitch with enthusiasm, and then, the heat of the first truly sunny day of the season overwhelming him, had unthinkingly stripped off his uniform shirt.

It had been borne in upon him only as the waist of it passed his head and ruffled its way over his hair that he had set himself a trap, and had given himself no hope of escape. Either Psmith would speak, and Mike would be undone; or Psmith would not, and Mike would be left secretly, helplessly wishing that he had.

He had swallowed hard, and looked at Psmith. Psmith's gaze had been fixed upon him, his eyes bright, his mouth soft and briefly slackened. Mike had felt himself shiver, unable to prevent it.

"Your philanthropy defies all description, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith at last, very low. "Truly, you act in the spirit of munificence toward your fellow man."

"Psmith," said Mike hoarsely.

"Cricket, as both test of skill and pastime, has always pleased me in the abstract," said Psmith. "But I now perceive for the first time the true extent of its merits."

He could not have meant it the way it had sounded to Mike in that moment, half-delirious with heat and with the dizzying awareness of Psmith's eyes on him, the warm ache of activity lingering in his muscles and the sweat cooling across the width of his bare shoulders. Mike knew he could not.

But it had not mattered. Mike had not been able to breathe. He had felt as if he must shudder all over, as if he wished to reach out and grasp Psmith and—and—

He had not known; or he had, but had felt he must burst spontaneously into flame if he dared to articulate as much to himself. He had not been able to speak. He had wrenched his eyes away from Psmith, had mumbled he knew not what and made himself turn away, throat aching.

He could not conceal it, after that. Not from himself, and surely not from Psmith. Perhaps Psmith had seen this in him all along; perhaps Psmith had wakened it deliberately, wishing to draw it to his attention, wishing to compel him to understand that he must rein it in before it could overpower him. Perhaps Psmith knew nothing at all, and only—only teased him, only spoke with the florid and charming excessiveness which had always been his habit, and it was simply that it fell upon Mike's ears differently now that Mike had—now that Mike was—

Two days. The most painful and most difficult two days that had ever passed between them. Mike could not speak, could not meet Psmith's eyes; yet, drawn as helplessly as ever, he could not make himself absent, had not the strength to withdraw from Psmith's company.

He could not have expected Psmith to let the matter lie forever. He knew that much.

But he had hoped perhaps it would not be so soon.

"Comrade Jackson," said Psmith.

Mike let his eyes fall shut, and swallowed.

"Mike," said Psmith.

Mike tensed, helplessly startled, and looked up.

Psmith was watching him quietly; his narrow face was grave and drawn. "I must extend you my sincerest apologies," he said after a moment, almost gently.

Mike dug his fingers into the sides of the armchair, throat working, and said nothing.

"I have provoked you most unforgivably, I fear, in every possible respect. A less stalwart companion would have long since taken insult, and expressed as much; but your charity and goodheartedness knows no bounds, as ever, and you are kinder by far than I deserve."

Mike did not grasp the words, at first. He waited distantly for the hammer-blow he had anticipated; only belatedly did he understand that it had not fallen. He blinked, once and then again. This was not the direction from which he had expected attack. It was, perhaps, not an attack at all.

"I am—" Psmith stopped, and swallowed. Mike's eyes caught absently, helplessly, on the motion of his throat. "I flatter myself that I am blessed with some moderate capacity for the adroit use of language. Yet I find words unequal to the task of expressing my gratitude to you for—for the invaluable gift of your friendship. A gift of which I've taken heedless advantage, in service of selfish, reckless hopes I should have known better than to indulge—"

Mike flinched. Psmith fell immediately silent. He had gone pale, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, and Mike understood nothing; he was dimly bewildered. He could not grasp what had moved Psmith to speak, why Psmith should be saying such things to him _now_ , and in such an earnest and even pleading tone. It was wholly incongruent with his understanding of the situation, his evaluation of his own conduct.

Psmith—Psmith sought to make it clear that all he wanted and ever had wanted of Mike was friendship. That must be it. Psmith wished that Mike should understand how much that friendship meant to him, that he did not like that Mike should interfere with it with his foolishness; but no, he claimed that he himself had been careless with it, which made no sense at all—

Mike stood, shaking his head, and began to absently wring his hands. "No," he said, strained. "No, you—Psmith—"

Psmith lifted his chin, as if he discerned an incoming blow that he should like to take upon it if he could. His face was blank, unreadable. His eyes glittered.

"You don't understand," managed Mike at last. "You wouldn't say that if you understood." He shook his head again, helpless. His eyes stung, wet. "I know you didn't—you couldn't have meant— _I'm_ the one who's sorry. Don't you know that?"

He had never cursed his own ineloquence with greater intensity. He set his jaw, and tried grimly to brace himself to begin again.

Except Psmith was looking at him with sudden close attention, and the faintest little furrow had dug itself into place across Psmith's brow.

Perhaps that was all that would be required, then, Mike thought dully. Perhaps Psmith needed nothing more from him after all.

"Psmith," he choked out, and then his throat closed. There were no more words left in him. He twisted away, suddenly unable to bear it, and took an unsteady stride, reaching out his hand for the door. He would go; he did not know where, but he could not stay.

"A moment, Comrade Jackson," said Psmith, with uncharacteristic haste, and was before him—reached out with greater speed than Mike had, and pressed his palm to the door to hold it shut. "A moment, if you please."

Mike squeezed his eyes shut. He felt vaguely ill.

"I suspect that if I have operated under a misapprehension, I have not been alone in doing so," said Psmith rapidly. "I suspect—I suspect that in your relentless generosity, you have attributed nobler motives to my actions than are warranted."

Mike had to look at him then. That sounded as though—but no. No. Surely not.

"These past weeks, I have spoken nothing less than the truth, Comrade Jackson. But my inclination to do so and do so freely might accurately be described by the discerning observer as profoundly licentious."

Mike blinked.

"Prurient in the extreme," clarified Psmith.

His ears had gone red.

"I hoped," said Psmith, and then he stopped short and bit at his mouth, a show of nervousness Mike had never before witnessed in him. "I wanted—"

Only the gravest and direst of circumstances, Mike understood, could reduce Psmith to such incoherency. It was astounding. It was _enflaming_.

Helpless in the grip of such extremity, Mike took the only course open to him. He grasped Psmith by the shoulders and pressed him back against the door, and kissed him.

Psmith made a choked, heated sound in the back of his throat, and reached up to push his fingers into Mike's hair, and kissed back.

Mike had believed, alone and hopeless in the dark of night, that the Psmith he conjured up in his mind as he stroked himself was an utter impossibility. And yet Psmith now, in reality, was if anything more ardent—he clutched at Mike, kissed him deeply and fervently, _moved_ against Mike where Mike had leaned close to find his mouth; it was too much and at the same time not enough, and Mike's heart was aching in his chest.

Psmith kissed him harder still, for a moment, and then held Mike still with his hands in Mike's hair, and drew away the barest fraction, breathing hard. "I," he said, and cleared his throat, reaching up to steady his eye-glass where it had been in danger of sliding free of its place. "I shouldn't like to compound my existing errors through a failure of clarity or specificity, Comrade Jackson. Before we go on—I realize that in both word and deed, I've lingered upon certain points I wished to emphasize, in the hope that you might be made aware of specific heretofore unspoken facets of my regard. But that regard shouldn't be considered limited to—that is, I—"

Mike felt his mouth slant helplessly. He closed his eyes and leaned in, so that his forehead touched Psmith's. "Me too," he said.

"Then we understand each other," said Psmith unsteadily.

"Bound to get there sooner or later," agreed Mike with a laugh, and then he kissed Psmith again.


End file.
